Promises to Keep Page 7

“Papa, Mathieu, and Guillaume,” I replied. “And our other brothers, of course.”

  “Really?” The mattress crackled as she rolled to face me, but her expression was invisible in the night. I imagined I could see it, the suspicion plain in her eyes. “So why do you smile when you’re thinking about them?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “Our men are prisoners, our world is upside down, and yet you smile.”

  Her words stung, but my guilty conscience hurt so much more already. I covered the pain with a snort of laughter. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t even see me.”

  “Amélie, I have slept beside you for more than ten years. Do you think I cannot sense what you feel?”

  When I did not answer, she sighed with exasperation. “You have a secret. I promise I will not tell.”

  She was warm to me now, her voice sweet as honey. She was thinking of Guillaume, locked away for God only knew how long, and she wanted to know what I knew. I knew nothing, so I said nothing.

  In the morning I was determined to focus on my chores and banish Connor—whom I had not seen in two weeks—from my mind. Try as I might, his smile still came to me. I decided the only way to cleanse my thoughts of him was to confront the source. From the pantry I retrieved a sack of apples I had gathered earlier that week, then placed a dozen in my basket, careful not to bruise them.

  “I’ll be back by dark,” I told Claire, who stood by the fire, sampling fish soup.

  She glanced up. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Can I come?” Giselle asked. She had been my shadow recently, craving diversion.

  “Not this time. Claire needs your help here. You should make an apple pie for when Maman returns.”

  Then I was off, striding toward the rows of white tents, trying to look as if I were in no rush, though apprehension roared through my veins. Tenacious white willows at the water’s edge clung to their festive coats, shimmering with colour whenever a breeze stirred, and the autumn sun blazed, bringing the yellows and oranges to an almost liquid gold. My clogs slipped on the rain-slicked leaves already loosed by the maples, but I kept my balance and continued up the hill. The air was warm enough that I could have left my shawl on the hook at home, but I had brought it in preparation for the later hours. In truth, I hoped to find Connor and be away from the house at least until sunset. In that time, the cold might sneak in, as it had lately, and I would be grateful for warmth.

  I rarely saw many soldiers when I came up this way, though I supposed their presence depended upon which duties had been assigned to them that day. Today a few lingered in the area when I arrived, but they didn’t seem busy. Most gave me a cursory glance and returned to whatever they’d been doing, but a few eyed me openly, making me uncomfortable. Concerned now, I kept my eyes straight ahead and looked for an officer in charge—even if it wasn’t Connor—assuming I’d recognize one by his uniform. The coats I saw now all looked equally dingy.

  “Oy! What’s this, then?” A young soldier stepped in my path, giving a cheeky grin. When I said nothing, he squinted and stepped a little closer. “What do you think you’re doing, mademoiselle, marching in here like you own the place?”

  I heard another man chuckle, but I remained mute out of both fear and reluctance to reveal the extent of my English. I used my knowledge of their language like a secret weapon, listening in on conversations when they thought I could not. I didn’t know this rough-looking man, and I wasn’t about to tell him anything.

  “Asked you a question, didn’t I?”

  Wide-eyed, I held up the basket and offered an apple. He stared at it, frowning, then cocked his head and peered more closely at me.

  “Me, I likes apples,” he said, coming impossibly close. His breath, thick, heavy, and sour, puffed against my face. “I likes all sweet things.”

  He reached for my neck, and I thrust the basket into his face. He shoved it sideways so hard an apple bounced out and hit the grass, but I kept holding the basket handle between us, maintaining a shield of sorts.

  I shouldn’t have come. My parents, my neighbours, Connor—everyone had told me to stay away from these men. I was impulsive, naive, and stupid, and the reality made my eyes burn. I turned to run but crashed into another, taller soldier who stood like a leering pillar. The first soldier grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back and anchoring me in place. I shrieked with panic.

  “Hello, mademoiselle,” said the taller man. “Ever been kissed by a New Englander?”

  They laughed when I tried to wriggle away, mimicked me when I shouted in French for them to let go, but the fingers of the New Englander dug into my shoulders, holding fast. He leaned toward me, and I turned my head . . . then suddenly found myself falling to the side. I hit the hard earth and scrambled sideways, staring with confusion at the two soldiers, now crumpled and groaning on the ground a little way from me.

  A hand appeared, offering assistance, and when I looked up I nearly cried with relief.

  Connor’s eyes were dark with concern. “Are you all right, lass?”

  I nodded meekly and took his hand.

  The rest of the soldiers who had gathered seemed eager to escape the scene, but Connor demanded their attention.

  “Perhaps you have forgotten Colonel Winslow’s orders that no man from this camp is to interfere in any way with the inhabitants of the land.” The men at his feet dropped their eyes. “No? So you do recall. In that case, I reckon you’ll not be overly surprised at the punishment.” He nodded briskly at two other soldiers. “Bind them. Bring them to the church. I will deal with them when I return.”

  “Mademoiselle Belliveau,” he said to me formally in French. “Would you accompany me, please?”

  I stooped to pick up my basket, then followed him away from the grumbling men and along a narrow path lined with fallen leaves, their sweet, cloying smell thick in the air. When we were far enough from the others, I saw him flex his right hand. The knuckles were smeared with blood.

  “You’re hurt,” I said.

  He glanced at his hand. “It’s nothing. Come away now, mademoiselle,” he said. “I think I know why you’re here.”

  TEN

  We picked our way across a wobbly path of large rocks, their silver-grey curves bumping from the surface of the river like a dragon’s tail. Pebbles and haphazard piles of driftwood littered the dark sand on the other bank. I had been to this place often enough in the past, but it felt entirely new now that I shared it with him. A hidden enclave awaited us in the willows, just down the shore, where a birch had fallen years ago. Its trunk was still sturdy, even comfortable enough to be used as a bench after Connor spread his long, black cloak like a blanket for us both. I could not sit, though.

  “Are you warm enough?”

  I nodded, not only warm enough, but blazing hot with embarrassment at what I’d done, coming here with him. “I am sorry. Thank you for helping me, but I should go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I shouldn’t be here. You are a stranger, and—”

  “But—”

  “Please,” I said, close to tears again. I could see by his expression that I was making everything worse, but I couldn’t help myself. “Take me home. I should not be here.”

  He gestured toward the log. “Mademoiselle Belliveau, please sit down. You don’t have to stay, but at least rest a bit. Get your breath back. You’ve suffered a shock.”

  He’d moved a little farther down the tree, away from where he’d first been sitting, and I appreciated the space he’d given me. I ignored the voice of reason screaming in my head and did what he suggested.

  “I do think I know why you came,” he said quietly.

  I almost laughed at the irony, since I was flustered to the point where even I hardly knew why I’d come. I glanced at the basket. “To bring you an apple?”

  “They look good. May I have one?”

  “Of course. Let me—”

  We reached
for the basket at the same time, and our heads collided with an audible thud. We sat up quickly, both of us pressing a hand to our brows.

  “I’m so sorry!” I cried.

  “Are you all right? I didn’t mean—”

  He reached reflexively for my face but dropped his hand when I pulled away, and I maintained a respectable distance.

  “I’m fine,” I said, handing him an apple. Nervous laughter bubbled behind my lips, but I kept it inside. The poor man already looked so concerned, it would be cruel of me to worry him further. “I’m sorry for making this so difficult.”

  He bit into the apple, taking almost half of it into his mouth with one bite. “You need not worry over that.”

  “Thank you for what you did back there.”

  “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. They shall be punished, I promise. I’m only sorry I wasn’t there faster.”

  “You were there in time; that’s what matters. I hate to think—”

  “Let’s not, then. Let’s talk of other things. Like why you came here.”

  “In truth, I don’t know,” I admitted, shy once more. “It was foolish. I should—”

  “But you did anyway.”

  He stared at me, willing me to speak; I feared I would say the wrong thing, so I said nothing.

  “Perhaps I could speak first,” he offered.

  I nodded, grateful for his assistance.

  “I do not want to seem presumptuous, but I . . . well, I have thought of you often of late. I miss our conversations. Circumstances being what they are now, it has not been possible, and I regret that—among other things.”

  “I feel the same way,” I admitted. “But holding private conversations like this cannot be appropriate. I know very little about you.”

  He reached for another apple, having finished the last, core and all. “True enough. Please allow me to remedy that situation. What would you like to know?”

  A mosquito buzzed past my nose and circled toward my hand. As soon as it landed I planned to slap it—except Connor had seen it too, and his hand whipped out. He crushed the bug before it could reach its destination.

  “Well,” I said, watching the tiny corpse fall to the ground, “judging from your expertise against horseflies and mosquitoes, I am fairly sure you’ve seen combat in your past.”

  “Oh, aye, but not how you’d think.” He grinned. “I mostly learned to stand up for myself when I was a lad.”

  I imagined he’d charmed everyone with that smile. Thinking of him as a boy reminded me of the story he’d shared before, of the violence that had brought him here in the beginning. I tried to picture this strong, confident man as a helpless little boy on his own. How did a child survive that sort of thing?

  “Will you tell me what happened when the English sent you away from your home?”

  I shouldn’t have asked. From his expression I knew that immediately, and I regretted being so bold. I opened my mouth to apologize, but he held up a hand.

  “It’s all right. You want to know who I am, and that will tell you a lot, I suppose.” He gazed across the river. “I told you I was ten when we were put in the hold of a ship similar to the ones where your father and brother are now.” He took a deep breath. “Some weeks later we landed in North Carolina.”

  I thought of Mathieu, lost in the crowd of men, and realized Connor had been even younger than my brother. His terror would have been unimaginable.

  “Once we arrived there I was sold off the docks in Charleston.”

  “Sold?”

  “Aye. I didn’t have the money to pay for transport, so the captain of the ship sold me, along with most of the others.”

  He spoke calmly, but his expression was hard. He told me about the farm where he’d worked for seven years, tending his master’s animals. It had been an adjustment, he said, living the life of a slave. Especially since his father had once been a well-respected man of some wealth in the Highlands of Scotland.

  “I’d grown up in my da’s stable, working with his horses, so that was the same. Living rough was not much of a challenge, but I was not used to being treated like dirt. That was difficult. After seven years I was released from that service, and I joined the army.”

  “But why join the army after everything they did to you and your family?”

  For the first time I saw frustration flare. “Because I had nothing else I could do. I had no money, no training, nowhere to live. I did what I had to do.”

  “I can’t even imagine having to live that way.”

  He shifted on the log and faced me again, his expression hard. “When a person’s world changes, he must adapt. You need to understand that your world is changing as well. Your story may not end up being so different from what happened to me.”

  “What do you remember of Scotland?” I asked, changing the subject.

  He frowned. “But I need to tell you—”

  “No. Tell me about Scotland.”

  Every one of my days was filled with dread at what might happen to us. From sunrise to long after dark I worried. Connor would tell me more about that in time, I was certain. For now I needed to think of something different.

  His eyes narrowed, but I insisted.

  “I remember working hard.” He exhaled, giving in. “And I remember a lot of rain. And laughter.”

  I nodded. “When Papa and my brothers were at home, we laughed more.”

  We stared at the clear water of the river, sparkling with sunshine. It was a perfect day, a perfect place to be, and his was the company I wanted. Yet I was still uneasy.

  “Do you not think it strange that you and I are talking together when we should be enemies?” I asked.

  He blinked, evidently hurt by my question.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I should have said the army is my enemy. But you are a part of that army, whether you like it or not. The truth is, you and I should not be friends.”

  He leaned down and picked up a handful of pebbles, then tossed them one by one, thinking over what I’d said. They plonked into the water with tiny splashes.

  “You insist upon that; however, I disagree.”

  “How can you? We are on opposite sides.”

  “Amélie,” he said, “our countries are at war, but you and I need not be.”

  I was startled to hear him address me by my first name, but I did not object.

  “Have you not been listening?” he asked, leaning toward me. “I do not believe your father and brother should be imprisoned. I do not believe the English deserve this land. I do not want you to be unhappy.” Frustration drew his brow, and he reached for my hand. “I am not your enemy.”

  “I know,” I whispered. “Still . . .” I slipped my hand from his and rose. “I should go.”

  He stood quickly. “It’s not dark yet,” he objected.

  “No, but it will be soon, and I must get home to make supper.”

  “Suddenly you’re in a hurry. Have I said something to upset you?”

  “Not at all,” I assured him, but the emotions I had tried to smother suddenly swelled to the surface, making it difficult to think clearly. Yes, I was upset—and I was afraid, though I did not know why. Was I intimidated by the exasperation in his voice, his insistence that I need not fear him? Was it his talk of war? Certainly that was frightening, but my fear ran deeper than that. Panic had struck unexpectedly when he had said my Christian name, and it had worsened when he’d held my hand.

  “I need to get back.”

  “Don’t go,” he said. “I’m sorry I said the wrong thing. I don’t want you to leave. Please stay.”

  “Why?” I demanded. “I do not understand. You insist we are friends, that you will protect me. You tell me things about this war that you should not tell me. You say my name as if we are close, but . . . You do not know me. Nor do I know you. This makes no sense.”

  “To me it does. I am fond of you, and my affection grows with every one of our meetings. In my grey world, you shine like th
e sun through fog. I admire your courage, the way you demand truth even when it is being firmly denied. This place is being pulled apart, but you will not permit that to happen without a fight. I will even admit to being impressed by your stubbornness, though it concerns me at times. You seem unafraid.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “You think I am unafraid? You truly do not know me.”

  “I said you seem that way, but I know you are not. We are all afraid, Amélie. Every one of us. But we do not have to surrender to it.”

  It was difficult to imagine his being afraid, but I could not bring myself to argue. “You are the boldest man I have ever met.”

  “I imagine I am,” he replied, chuckling. “But I am an honest man as well. One you can trust.”

  A cloud drifted past the sun, the first I had noticed all afternoon, and I shivered despite the warmth of the day. Recently, without Papa and my brothers, and without my Mi’kmaq family, I had felt very alone. Thoughts of Connor had kept me company. Here was an offer of friendship, one I truly desired. It would be simple to blame social propriety and deny us both that simple pleasure. On the other hand, what would happen if I chose to trust him?

  Surprising us both, I reached for his hand and gripped it tightly. “Connor, I . . . I get afraid at night, wondering what might happen,” I blurted out. Once the words began I found I could no longer contain them. “I remember my brother’s face as he was taken to the ships, and I think of the soldiers with their bayonets . . .”

  I willed the images away, but they remained, dark and terrible as ever.

  “I cannot bear the fear that comes of uncertainty; I have never felt that before,” I told him, trying not to crumble into sobs. “All my life I have known what the next day would bring, and I knew I was safe. My life has gone from being paradise to being unpredictable and cruel. I am so afraid, I cry at night when everyone else is asleep. I think of you and dare to hope I will be all right, that you will protect me somehow. Then I wonder . . . if they send me away, will I ever see you again?”

  He lifted my hands and slowly, gently pressed his lips to them. The rugged lines of his face had relaxed, and I knew my words had moved him.